Chapter Eight
I had never been permitted to travel alone.
Even as a child, a short walk across the street had required an escort, be it my parents or one of my brothers.
When I married, my freedom was restricted further.
Eriopis or Morsimus accompanied me on every walk I took, including to the bathhouse, but given the beatings I received, I cannot remember when I had last indulged in such an excursion.
“Where does this Phile live?” I asked Melitta.
“On the outskirts of the village. The largest house in Ninniya, next to the tannery. Come, we should dress you suitably.”
Though it had seemed improbable that I would ever wear any of my finer robes again, I had brought them anyway.
Several of them had belonged to my mother-in-law and had been worn in the company of the highest society in Prousa.
I did not worry that they would be unsuitable.
I feared Phile might see them as pretentious, as an attempt to exalt myself above my current status.
After some scrutiny, I picked out a purple silk chiton with tiny yellow flowers stitched on the hem. With a steady hand, Melitta helped me fix my hair into thin braids that she piled high on my head. All in all, the outfit was acceptable, although the absence of jewelry was notable, even to me.
“If I do not return by the time Morsimus arrives, let him know I am with a woman of the village, discussing credit for food. That will appease him. But stay out of his way. If he is drunk, he may be swift to anger.”
“I have dealt with Morsimus since he was a babe. I do not fear him,” Melitta said.
I was unsure whether her comment was foolish or brave, but I remained silent on the matter.
After one last check in the mottled bronze mirror, I headed outside.
During my brief excursions out of the house, I had paid great attention to the village in which I now lived.
Ninniya was composed of around two dozen houses, some of which were closely packed around a central fountain while others—ours included—were spread farther away on the hillside.
Most of the houses were built of wood, yet there were some like ours that were stone.
Though this walk would have provided me the perfect opportunity to learn more, I did not have time to waste.
I picked up my pace, desperate to return before Morsimus discovered me gone.
Phile’s home was the largest in the village by far. The walls were clean, well tended, and over ten feet high, though a pungent aroma eddied around them. This, I assumed, was the tannery. I was still several feet away from the gate when the dogs began barking.
My heart pounded against my ribs. A bite from one of those would not save me from whatever fate Morsimus had chosen. All it would do was lower my worth. Breathing deeply, I continued forward.
These large wooden gates showed no signs of warping, and the locks and hinges affixed to it were metal.
The craftsmanship of the carving would have been impressive in Prousa, but here it felt at odds with its surroundings, like a stallion galloping with a rake of mules.
It did not enamor me to the owner, but I did not need to like her.
I needed her help. With my strength steeled, I knocked once.
As I waited, the possibility of a trap twisted through my mind, but before I could even consider turning back, the large gates opened inward.
“Otrera, I assume.” The man was unlike any I had ever seen before. He stood as broad as an ox and towered two full heads above me. His skin was dark, his eyes wide and almond-shaped, and his expression unreadable. “Phile is waiting for you.”
Phile. I shuddered at the casual moniker. No servant I had ever met would dare speak of their mistress in such familiar terms. If he was Phile’s husband, on the other hand, then opening the door hardly seemed fitting for a man of such status.
I did not question but followed the gargantuan man silently through the garden toward the house.
A large mosaic of cornflower blue decorated the path, and steps led to a portico lined with simple, straight pillars.
Pots were filled to the brim with flowers, while several fruit trees—cherries, peaches, and plums—were already starting to ripen.
Inside, oil lamps burned, their aroma mingling with the fragrant smoke of incense.
Such scents were as heady and rich as those in a temple yet still not quite strong enough to mask the odor of the tannery.
In the uncovered space of the courtyard, vines wove up the pillars, spilling up and out into a thick canopy of dense foliage.
Dragonflies and butterflies danced between the flowers and the fountain that gurgled loudly in the center of the space.
The lady herself lay on a couch, waving a large fan in her hand, attempting to abate the humidity and possibly the stench.
Her feet rested on the seat, and the fabric of her chiton pulled up so that it exposed her legs all the way to her knee.
As I approached, she swung her legs around and pushed herself into a seated position.
“Wine?” she said.
No welcome. No formal greeting. Once again, I suspected a trap, yet I had no intention of incurring the gods’ wrath by spurning her hospitality.
“That would be kind. Thank you.”
Deciding to adopt her air of informality, I took a seat on the adjacent couch without waiting for an invitation. A moment later, a cup was thrust into my hand. Then, in a manner I could not have anticipated, the colossal man who had guided me through the home took a seat on the remaining couch.
My muscles tensed at his proximity.
He was easily young enough to be Phile’s son, yet it seemed unlikely given the darkness of his complexion and the paleness of hers.
A cousin or nephew perhaps? As intrigued as I was by this man’s role, I did not ask.
I had not come to question Phile. But before I could say anything, she spoke again.
“Otrera, welcome. I will repeat what I said at the river: I am certain you and I will become firm friends. But for that to happen, I require something of you.”
Even now, I can recall how I recoiled in that moment and how I thought, with both arrogance and naivety, that friendships that came with conditions did not feel like friendships at all. But I was in no position to refuse, so with my lips sealed tightly, I nodded.
Phile smiled, the creases in her eyes deepening for a second before she continued.
“This village survives on honesty between women. It is we, not a polis of men, who keep it running. We, not our husbands, who ensure there are coins for food and keeping the home. So let me tell you what I believe I know about you, and you can correct me if I am mistaken. Then you may ask me any questions you may have. Does that seem agreeable to you?”
It was far too much to take in in one go, yet once again, I could not say such a thing, so I dipped my chin to answer her.
“Good. So your husband lost the family money. Gambling, I assume?” She was astute. I would give her that.
“Yes. I did not know how bad the situation was,” I added.
Phile nodded. “Is he in debt? Are there people who will come looking for him here?”
I shook my head. “I do not believe so. They took our home in Prousa and everything there. Jewelry. Almost all our servants. All we have left is what we came with.”
“What about farmland? Goats? A way to make money?”
I shook my head again. “Merely two mules that we have no use for now.”
“That is disappointing but unsurprising.” Phile’s bluntness struck me hard back in those days, though no words landed with as much force as the comment that came next. “Tell me, Otrera, does your husband beat you?”
My eyes widened. This was not a matter we discussed. Not even with women whom I had known since my marriage. What happened behind closed doors was between a husband and wife alone. In my effort to stay silent, I glanced down at my feet, a gesture that unexpectedly angered my host.
“You do not hang your head in my house,” she came close to shouting, her face bright. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. Beating his wife is as low as a man can go. Almost. But I suspect you know that?”
She let her question hang in the air, and I wondered if she knew what else Morsimus had asked of me. What he expected me to do. Silence stretched out between us, and I suspected she would not speak again. Not until I had confessed.
“He wishes me to sell myself to the men of the village,” I said quietly.
Once again, Phile offered me an unexpected response. She laughed.
“In that case, he will be disappointed,” she chuckled. “You will not earn much money doing that here. Half the husbands are lucky if their cocks get hard once a year.”
The coarseness of her words caused me to stifle a small gasp, though beyond the shock, they brought me little comfort.
If sex work was not an option, then what would Morsimus do?
Sell me to a gambling den? Take me to a pimp back in Prousa and get his cut of my earnings that way?
I had come to this woman for help, and she had only told me my fate was set.
“You said you could help me. Help me survive?”
I did not hide the desperation in my voice.
“You are right. That is how we women survive here: by sticking together. But first, there is someone I believe you do not yet know. Let me introduce you two properly.” She turned to the gentleman and patted the cushion by her side.
Wordlessly, he stood and sat next to her on the couch.
“Otrera, this is Hirtus. My lover.”